Introducing Murder Hornet: Prelude + Chapter One
💡 This story is part of my ongoing series, Murder Hornet, a novel-in-progress unfolding one imperfect chapter at a time.
Prelude
My heart is pounding… I know with every fiber of my being that I’ll hate myself for what I’m about to do. There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that I’ll kick myself and that this will go on to become one of my Top Five Mistakes I’ll Forever Regret Making, and yet… I do it just the same.
I force my body to lean forward. I make my left foot lift itself off the sidewalk. I steel myself for what I know will be painful and potentially dangerous. I take one final last long breath and walk into the path of a speeding yellow Vespa.
Chapter I
“Watch out,” someone shouts, and I cringe unconsciously closing my eyes, waiting for the impeding impact that is supposed to send me to a spiraling world of pain, and yet, miraculously, a wave of exhaust fumes and heat brushes quickly past me, followed by an invisible force pulling me forward. I open my eyes. There’s a distinct smell of burnt rubber in the air.
“Are you crazy,” the same dismembered voice calls out from somewhere to my right.
“Homeboy’s got a death wish or something,” a different voice mutters from behind me. “Dude just crossed the street without looking,” it continued.
“I— I’m okay… I think,” I mumble, pawing at my arms, then my ribs, hips, legs, and finally my face, trying to grasp how I’m still standing in one piece.
“That was a rhetorical question. Why would you… why would anyone…” the voice shouted again, followed by a pronounced sigh.
I realized that the person speaking to me was located directly opposite the direction of the skid mark I could see clearly imprinted on the road to my left. I slowly rotated myself clockwise following a trail of loose sheets of paper and notebooks, until I saw a girl—dressed in mostly dark yellow from head to ankles—standing on her tippy toes balancing an also yellow vespa between her legs. The sun was still out, and it was still fairly hot despite being the first week of September, but she had on a thick fluffy yellow sweater, yellow leggings under black shorts, and dark army-looking boots.
“I could’ve gotten killed you know that?” She pushed off the kickstand in one swift motion, set the vespa still idling on it, and proceeded to unclasp her yellow helmet off. “Sheesh, talk about a close call.”
I started walking toward her, automatically bending down to pick up a black composition notebook along the way. “What about me?” I asked.
“WHAT about you?” She asked while picking up more of her school things scattered near her.
“Uh, I could’ve gotten killed too. You were going pretty fas—”
“Excuse me?” She looked up from the ground and at me for the first time. She had shoulder-length black curly hair partially covering her face until she blew it out of the way with an impatient blow, revealing a pale annoyed face peering at me from behind an old-fashioned pair of goggles. “You,” she stabbed at my direction with a gloved finger, “jaywalked right into my path, and I’m lucky that I’m still alive. If I hadn’t been paying attention, they would be scrapping my pieces off the road right now.”
“I’m sorry.” I picked up a few more loose papers and walked the remaining distance until I was standing next to her.
“I truly am,” I said looking at her in earnest. She caught herself just before she could restart her tirade.
I extended my hand and offered her things back.
She took a deep breath, held it in for a few seconds and, for the second time since our almost collision, I saw her blow her curly hair out of her face. Her shoulders lowered a fraction of an inch, her balled fists relaxed into hands, and after taking a second even longer breath, she let the air out through her lips. She pulled off her goggles, revealing thick, brown-framed glasses that seemed to be held in place by an impressive set of eyebrows the thickness and same composition of summer millipedes.
“Thank you,” she let out, picking her things and stuffing them into her backpack. “I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she continued. “You came out of nowhere. I barely missed running you over.”
I looked around and reached out to pick up one remaining book that had found its way wedged in between two small bushes.
“The October Country,” I read the cover and handed it to her.
“Have you read it?” she took it from me and held it with both of her hands seeming to disappear for a brief second into her thoughts as if she could see something else besides the book cover.
“What?” I asked. “Have I read this book? No… can’t say that I have. Who is it by?”
“You probably don’t know him. Never mind,” she shrugged.
“Wait,” I grabbed the book before she could put it inside her backpack. “Ray Bradbury… didn’t he write Fahrenheit 451 or something like that?” I flipped through the pages, noticing she visibly wincing with every page that I thumbed through. She was obviously attached to it, so I carefully closed it and offered it back to her as someone who presents an expensive bottle of wine to a customer at a fancy restaurant.
“Right. He’s known for writing Fahrenheit 451, but he’s written a ton of short stories and other books too.” She paused and asked tentatively. “Did you like it?”
“To be honest, I don’t quite recall all the details, but I did watch the movie,” I beamed.
“You mean the adaptation that was made by Ramin Bahrani in 2018?” She couldn’t hide a certain air of disdain when she said the word adaptation.
“Uh, I guess that’s the one. It was released recently if I remember correctly.”
“Well, I didn’t like it.”
“The book?” I asked.
“The adaptation.” She rolled her eyes which made me realize they were completely dark. “The book is awesome though.”
She turned her back to me and started walking to her Vespa.
“So, you like him, then?” I blurted out the first thing that crossed my mind to make her stay. She turned around, her eyebrows knotted into a questioning look. “Ray Bradbury, I mean.”
“Yes.” She answered slowly, stretching the word as if she was asking me more than offering an answer. “Are you sure I didn’t hit you or something? Do you need anything?”
“Okay, this is embarrassing—” I approached her again. “—but I’m kind of lost, actually.”
“Lost?”
“Yeah,” I grimaced.
“As in you don’t know where you are?”
“Well, not that completely lost,” I chuckled. “I know we’re at the high school, but I don’t know how to get home from here.”
“Are you serious?”
“Sadly, yes, I am. I just moved here from up north and haven’t figured out the lay of the land yet.”
“Hmm… do you at least remember your address?” She was genuinely interested now.
“Of course,” I replied.
“Okay, and what is your address then?”
“Oh, I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?” She looked bewildered.
“Because you’re a stranger,” I smirked.
She paused for a moment, briefly looking lost in thought. “Fair enough,” she replied, and turned around to go back to her Vespa.
“Thomas!” I hurriedly semi-shouted. “My name is Thomas Conrad,” I said a bit softer this time, putting my hand on her shoulder, immediately regretting it for fear of crossing a boundary about physical contact. If she minded it, she hid it well though, for she paused and slowly faced me.
“Now we’re making some progress, Thomas.” She smiled for the first time. “Do you want to tell me where you live now?”
“We live in the very last house at the end of Pinehurst,” I offered. “Do you know where that is?”
“Pinehurst? Of course. It’s one of the fanciest parts of town. Only the rich and well-connected live there as every house comes with a hefty price tag.” She paused and looked me up and down. “Is that where you live?”
“Afraid so,” I shrugged. “How do I get there?”
“Well, I guess you could take Sage Road down to Fordham and then take Ephesus Church—you have no clue what these names mean, do you?” My face must have shown my confusion.
“You might as well speak in Swahili to me,” I laughed.
“How did you get to school today?”
“My dad dropped me off, but I wasn’t really paying attention to be honest.”
“And how were you planning to get back home?” She could barely hide her disbelief, covering what was probably a smirk with her hand.
“I was thinking of walking home, but by the way you’re struggling to keep from laughing at me, I can see that it must be all very funny to you now, huh?” I blushed.
She shook her head vigorously, perhaps to avoid flat out laughing at me. “No, no… well, yes, but… BUT in your defense, you are new to the area, so… it’s an easy mistake to make.”
She smiled again, which also made me laugh sincerely. I needed to keep her engaged if I were to get to know her better, but as much as my brain raced through several different ideas, I couldn’t think of a way to keep the conversation going.
“Tell you what, Thomas. I actually live right across from Pinehurst, so why don’t I give you a ride to your place?”
I couldn’t believe my luck!
“Are you sure? I don’t want to impose,” I managed to say, looking around and over my shoulders to see if anyone was observing us.
“Of course, I’m sure. I don’t have an extra helmet, but I think we’ll be okay.” She climbed on the Vespa, retracted the kickstand with a swift backwards kick, and swung her backpack around and to the front between her feet.
I hadn’t noticed until now just how shabby the Vespa was. There were several bands of rust all over the fender and cracks showed through the leather seat.
“Are you coming or are you going to stand there gawking at me?” She was wearing a yolk-yellow helmet that matched the rest of her outfit, her bulky black goggles bulging out.
“I wasn’t gawking; I just never rode a Vespa before. I thought you could only get one in Europe.” I took another look around and only then swung my legs around the back, my hands automatically seeking for something to hold on to around the seat, but before I could settle in she revved the Vespa up, forcing me to instinctively grab around her waist least I fell down.
“So, what grade are you,” I asked nervously looking over her shoulders as she quickly maneuvered us through and out of the parking lot and onto the main road.
“Rule #1 when riding with me: no talking to the driver!” I heard her say, her words muffled by the helmet and the wind whipping around us.
“Ha, good one,” I said taking my hands off her waist but quickly placing them back when she swerved sharply around a parked car. “I’m a Junior,” I shouted over the wind.
“Rule #1,” was her answer, her tone indicating that she meant business. I wanted to ask a few questions and start collecting more information about her but decided that distracting someone who right now had total control over whether I would get home in one piece or not wasn’t the right thing to do.
I took a deep breath and started to notice the girl standing right in front of me. Her hips were narrow but not bonny. Her curly hair fell down the bottom of the helmet and into her sweater. Had she had tucked it there so that it wouldn’t fly into my face? I wasn’t sure, but if she did, it was definitely an unexpected gesture. My knees were braced around her thighs which felt firm and muscular despite my attempts to not get too close to her body.
I was deep in thought when she abruptly stopped at a dead end and turned her head sideways to tell me we were at the end of our journey and would I now be able to find my own house, unable to hide a smirk from behind her goggles.
“It’s the one on the left,” I pointed over her shoulder. I dismounted from the Vespa and saw my mom’s car in the driveway. “Er… do you want to come inside?” I asked.
“Nah, I got lots of work to do this afternoon,” she replied, swinging her backpack onto her shoulders.
“Homework already? School’s just started,” I said in disbelief.
“Who said anything about homework? Some of us from the poor side of town have to work if we’re to rub elbows with the elite of Chapel Hill. So long, Thomas.” She looked at me sideways and took off.
“What’s your name?” I shouted but the sound of her Vespa speeding down the street was all I got back in response.
“Murder Hornet,” I heard someone say from the driveway. “Her name is Murder Hornet, but you already knew that” the voice chuckled.
Disclaimer: Murder Hornet is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or real events is purely coincidental. All content presented here is the intellectual property of the author, Og Maciel, and may not be reproduced, distributed, or shared in any form or by any means without the author’s prior written consent.
I'm intrigued...